Proud Custodian


A skeleton of old trombones
Comes dancing down the aisle.
A symphony that no one owns,
No license, only style.

A fan sits in the living room,
And puts on quite a show.
Its  blades are caged in metal frames,
The air is free to go.

It passes through the old trombones
And notes are gently born.
Abundant wealth of noise, set free,
Enlightened by the horn.

It matters not, who buys the fan,
The breeze won’t stay for long.
And hold a songbird in your hand,
You’ll never own the song.

Yes, I can buy the instrument,
But not possess the sound;
Yet, being here with you makes me
The richest man around.



 

 

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